Truman Compote

by Bill Yarrow

When it rains, I can really think. Was that
how it went? Well, maybe my memory's not
watertight, but what is these days? My eyes
widen at the coincidence of plashing verticals
and the stolid columns of the world. I love that
hopeless warfare. I always think of raindrops
as the underdogs, the frail insurgents of heaven
against the stumpy dictatorship of the material.
But now the rivers are rising and the streets have
bowed down to boats. The brick house can stand
up to the Big Bad Wolf but not to the water cannons
of the apocalypse. The rain is getting smarter.
The storm clouds are overpopulating. The sky is
scary. It's not your parents' revolution anymore.